Before returning to his chamber, Revan took hold of several books—ones that seemed to contain knowledge of history, fairytales, and whatever else might give him some insight into this world. A practical decision. If he was to navigate this life without ending up hanging from another rope, he would need to know how things worked.


    He returned to his room without much ceremony, though Cayle insisted on inquiring—repeatedly—if he required anything.


    And what was he supposed to say? Branded orange juice from the supermarket?


    Instead, he simply refused, waving her off, and let the door shut behind him with a dull thunk.


    A sigh left his lips as he moved toward the bed. The soft mattress sank beneath him as he dropped onto it, groaning slightly as he straightened his back, pushing against his lower spine with both hands. He sat there for a moment, allowing the tension in his shoulders to settle before finally shifting forward, reaching for one of the books.


    The Steps of Conjuration.


    Revan scoffed under his breath.


    ''Of course, a noble family would fancy themselves obsessed with something they haven''t had for generations.'' He turned the old parchment with care, feeling its age beneath his fingertips. ''What a useful use of my ancestors'' greed.''


    The first pages were dedicated to acknowledgments. Among the names listed: Solomon and Merlin—scholars, researchers, men who had advanced their studies in magic because of the first ever realized Conjurer, Ashur.


    ''Neat introduction to a classic book with a Solomon and Merlin here too. Goddamn. Would read. Ten out of Ten.''


    As he continued, the text laid out the foundation of Conjuration in brief. It explained how the bloodlines of witches, diluted by generations of mixing with non-magical folk, had given rise to Conjurers. These individuals, though unable to wield inherent magic with the same raw instinct as their witch-born ancestors, had turned to study—developing their own unique disciplines, pushing the known boundaries of magic, and expanding their chosen branches into new and powerful forms.


    At the heart of it all lay The Oracle—the Capital''s prestigious academy, a place where Conjurers earned their titles, their prestige, and their recognition. To be a Conjurer was to stand as an equal to nobility, a title that carried weight on its own. Unlike knights, they were not bound by the Oaths of Forsworn or Celibacy. They had the freedom to pursue knowledge, to devote their lives to research, or, should they choose, to join the military and earn further rank and status.


    Revan tapped his fingers against the page, mulling over the implications.


    ''Hm. Hm. Quite interesting indeed.''


    His eyes flicked further down the text.


    ''Now, where''s the fucking guide for me to cast fireballs in a closed room?''


    He carefully turned the pages, the parchment old and delicate beneath his fingertips, until at last—he found it.


    The guide.


    He wasted no time.


    First, he moved to the window, pulling the thick burgundy drapes over it. The fabric was heavy, swallowing the light, plunging the room into near darkness. Only a single sliver remained—a small patch of unblocked space where a thin beam of light streamed through, cutting across the oak table.


    Revan positioned himself before it, his right hand resting against the wood, palm open beneath the ray of light.


    He focused.


    The book had instructed him to look—not at his hand itself, but at the spaces between his fingers. At the shadow they cast.


    His breath steadied. His eyes narrowed slightly.


    And then—


    He saw.


    Not clearly. Not yet. But faint distortions flickered between his fingers, a ripple in the air, subtle and delicate, like heat rising from stone. It was there. Barely visible, but real.


    A slow grin crept onto his face.


    ''Fuck YEAH!''


    He screamed internally, the rush of discovery sending a thrill through his veins.


    Now to strengthen the perception.


    Revan could see the thin white tendrils, but barely. It was not enough.


    He followed the book''s guidance, holding his hands an inch apart, focusing on the space between them. His breathing slowed, deep and measured. The pages had warned him—perception comes first, manipulation comes later. He had to feel before he could grasp.


    So he focused.


    Not on his hands. Not on his body. On the space itself.


    His palms remained steady, the heat of the sunlight pressing against them where they lay over the oakwood desk. Yet between them—between his fingers—something else stirred. A faint shift, subtle, a cooling sensation where there should have been none. It spread slowly, creeping along his skin, a gentle contrast to the warmth of the room.


    Then came the tingling—at the corners of his eyes, an itch beneath his skin. He resisted the urge to rub at it, holding firm.


    And then, they came into focus.


    The mana threads.


    Between his palms, they moved differently than those in the open air. Unlike the ones drifting idly through the room, these did not pass through him. They pulled away from the space between his hands, creating a void where none should exist.


    A small grin crept onto his lips. That''s it.


    The sensation confirmed something vital—mana interacts with biological systems, but only when acknowledged. Once perception stabilized, then manipulation could begin.


    Step by step.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    This is it. This is—


    Crack!


    The door snapped open.


    Revan''s head whipped around, his heart slamming once against his ribs.


    A woman stood in the doorway, resting against the frame, arms crossed. Dark hair, long up to her shoulders, her eyes sharp, dark brown and her face filtered and made attractive with cosmetics. She wore a regal purple tunic, tucked under the black leggings which was tied with a brown leather belt. He boots raised above her ankles.


    Tall, poised, expression unreadable.


    His breath caught.


    "Sister Anneliese Elke…"


    The name left his lips before he even thought to speak it.


    A ripple passed through him—one that did not belong to him. Fear, deep and instinctual, curling at the edges of his gut. El Ritch''s fear. His palms grew damp. A cold tension coiled in his chest, pressing against his lungs.


    The response was immediate. Reflexive.


    "What is the meaning behind this long-winded address?" Her voice was honeyed mockery, light and deliberate. "Has our brief sparring match placed such distance between us?"


    She stepped forward.


    Boots clicked against the stone floor.


    Revan stepped back.


    His movement was small, barely noticeable, but it did not stop. Inch by inch, retreating, until his leg struck the bedside and he could go no further.


    Anneliese''s gaze flickered, briefly shifting toward the bed, then back to him. Her lips curled—not a sneer, not quite a smirk. Something closer to amusement.


    "Aw, is mine own baby brother striving to become a grand Conjurer?"


    Before he could react, pain seared through his ear.


    She had reached for him—too fast to evade—and pulled him aside, yanking him away by his ear with a casual cruelty that felt practiced.


    Revan clenched his jaw.


    The sharp sting spread down his neck, but he refused to make a sound. His fingers twitched slightly, the remnants of El Ritch''s instincts clawing at his mind.


    Stay quiet.


    Do not provoke.


    Worthless. That was the word El Ritch had accepted for himself. But it was not Revan.


    He was prideful.


    Anneliese did not hesitate as she reached for the books.


    Her fingers moved swiftly, flipping through the pages with no care for their fragility. A rough, careless treatment of texts older than either of them, as if they were mere playthings for her idle curiosity.


    Revan swallowed, forcing his voice steady. "The book is old…"


    Anneliese did not even glance at him.


    "Did you speak, my baby brother?"


    She had heard him. She knew what he had said. And yet, she refused to acknowledge it. The dismissiveness was deliberate, another needle beneath the skin, another thread woven into the years of habit El Ritch had endured.


    Revan''s breath grew quicker.


    But this time—this time, he did not let it consume him.


    The words pushed through, forcing their way past El Ritch''s choking instinct.


    "Those books are ancient. Do not play rough with them if you cannot read them!"


    The flipping stopped.


    Slowly—almost lazily—Anneliese turned her head toward him.


    "What did you just say?"


    Anneliese''s voice carried a strange amusement, like a scholar hearing an animal mimic speech for the first time.


    Revan straightened, ignoring the way his back ached. "I said, elder sister—" he forced the words through clenched teeth, "—isn''t it time for you to leave me be? I have needs I need to tend."


    The sentence didn''t come out right. Too modern. Too off. The weight of it made his skin crawl, his expression threatening to scrunch in disgust. Never—not even in his past life—had he been humiliated like this. Not by professors, not by peers.


    Anneliese''s brow arched at his tone, but she said nothing. Instead, she moved.


    The shove came fast and forceful.


    His back slammed against the corner of the oak table. Pain, searing and vicious, ripped through him, shooting up his spine, which was already hurt, like fire. His legs buckled, and he collapsed onto his back, his right hand catching against the floor while his left clawed at the pain. His breath hitched. His nose finally scrunched in disgust.


    She crouched down beside him, her presence looming.


    "Did you—" she gestured vaguely toward the books with a flick of her hand, "consider that gaining insight into mana would have granted you some measure of confidence against me, dear brother?"


    Her voice was light, airy, almost mocking in its gentleness.


    "Did you, even for a moment, believe that Father would spare a thought for either of us?"


    Revan barely heard her.


    The agony in his back overrode everything else, a sharp and persistent reminder of the wounds from training, now worsened by her hands. He gritted his teeth, sucking in air through his nose, and for the first time, he let modern words slip through his lips.


    "I don''t give a fuck about you or Father, as the matter of point stands."


    His own words surprised him.


    ''El Ritch could go fuck himself. This is me in his body after he died, and I, unlike that fucking rat, have pride.''


    Anneliese''s head tilted slightly, her brows furrowing for the first time. Not anger—curiosity.


    "What is that foul and uncouth language?" she mused, her expression never losing that slight, knowing smile. "Have you been mixing with the common folk?"


    Her amusement did not last.


    Her hand shot out with terrifying speed.


    Revan barely had time to react before her fingers wrapped around his throat, tightening hard.


    "Amusing words," she sneered, her voice no longer carrying its earlier playfulness. "Yet you forget yourself, Elphonse." Her grip tightened, her nails digging into his skin. "I remain your elder, a squire in rightful standing, and above all—our eldest, Rolf Urs Ritch, is not here to shield you from me."


    Revan''s vision blurred at the edges.


    His hands gripped her wrist, trying to pry her fingers away, but she was stronger than she looked. His head grew lighter, his breath catching in his throat. Still, he glared at her.


    His lips parted, breath shallow. "I don''t give a fuck—"


    Her fingers squeezed.


    His words cut off.


    Dark spots danced at the corners of his vision. His limbs felt heavy, his body sluggish, slipping—


    And then she let go.


    Revan gasped, air rushing into his lungs too fast. Drool dripped from the corner of his lips, trailing down to the floor. He coughed, struggling to steady himself.


    And then—


    "Isn''t that a sight to behold?"


    A new voice.


    Revan''s head snapped up, his vision still blurry.


    A man stood just inside the doorway, clad in a white tunic and brown trousers, his right hand—gloved in thin leather—holding several books, his left tucked casually into his pocket. His long, silky brown hair fell neatly past his shoulders, tucked behind his ears, his skin clear and almost too smooth. He had a lean figure, the kind that spoke of someone who maintained their body not for battle, but for appearance. A scholar.


    And behind him—


    "That indeed is." That familiar voice. That familiar purple coat.


    Aldric.


    "How dare you set foot within the eastern mansion of the Ritch family without making yourself known?"


    Anneliese rose to her feet in one smooth motion, turning sharply toward the intruders.


    "Declare your name at once!"


    Before the man in white could respond, movement blurred past them—Cayle.


    She bowed fully, hands clasped in front of her. "I apologize for not informing you, Lady Anneliese."


    Straightening, her head remained lowered, her gaze fixed at Anneliese''s feet.


    "This gentleman—" she gestured toward the man in white with both hands, "—is Cain Spillion, the Conjurer from the Academy Oracle, assigned to help Young Lord Elphonse master Conjuration!"


    Revan''s breath steadied. Father sent someone? That is unexpected.


    Cayle turned slightly, about to gesture to Aldric, but before she could—


    "I am but a humble knight," Aldric interjected smoothly, stepping forward. "Escorting Conjurer Cain."


    Nothing more.


    Revan caught it. He did not divulge his identity.


    Anneliese exhaled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders, but not all. She glanced down at Revan once more, lips curling in something that might have been satisfaction.


    Then, she turned away.


    "My promise to you, baby brother—" she stepped past Cain and Aldric, her voice laced with condescension, "we will meet again."


    She bowed slightly to Cain, then to Aldric, before turning toward the door.


    She was leaving.


    No. Not like this.


    Not after this.


    Not after the humiliation, the choking, the way she looked down at him.


    She couldn''t just leave.


    "ANNE!"


    The word came like a whip, raw and unrestrained.


    She stopped.


    Slowly, she turned her head, her gaze snapping back to him.


    "MY PROMISE TO YOU, ANNE—" his voice rose despite the pain in his throat, "I WILL MAKE YOU FUCKING CRAWL!"


    The sheer force of it sent another sharp pang through his back, but he stood anyway, every muscle screaming in protest.


    Anneliese''s expression darkened.


    For the first time, she did not mock. She did not sneer.


    She glared—feral, dangerous, seething.


    But she did not speak.


    She could not speak.


    Because she knew.


    Here, in front of Aldric. In front of Cain. She could do nothing.


    She turned.


    And then, she left.